The Master's Apprentice - Oliver Potzsch Page 0,8

past the dozing guard. It was noon, and the lanes of Knittlingen lay deserted. It was unbearably hot, even in the shade, and it hadn’t rained more than a few drops for weeks. Regardless of the heat, Johann ran up toward the church, which was situated atop a low, slanting ridge. Laughter could be heard from the taverns and inns, where farmers and tradesmen had gathered for their traditional pint following Sunday mass. Someone called out to Johann but he didn’t stop. He could still hear his father’s cruel words in his head.

Who knows how many days she’s got left . . .

He shouldn’t have left his mother’s side—not for this long. His father always knew where it hurt the most. His mother had been sickly for years, but for the last few months, she hadn’t been able to leave her bed at all. Johann would sit with her for long hours, reading from books he’d borrowed from the Maulbronn monastery or telling her stories he’d picked up from travelers at the taverns. Today had been the first day in a long time he hadn’t sat by her bedside.

Instead he’d gone into the fields to meet a girl for a first kiss. A girl who was promised to another.

His mother’s cough had been bad this morning, her phlegm streaked with red. Johann couldn’t remember a time when his mother hadn’t been ill. And his father had always treated his mother’s illness with a cold indifference that frightened Johann. Sometimes he thought his father would be glad if she died. If she were an old horse, he’d probably put her down and look for a younger horse. But as it was, he left the task of caring for his sick wife to Johann.

Over the years, Johann had learned much from his frequent visits to the Knittlingen barber-surgeon and to the nearby monastery library, where he’d read countless books about healing—though he’d found many of the books rather strange. A lot of them spoke of the breath of hell, witches’ brimstone, and pious invocations, but there weren’t many useful recipes. Books were often like that: whenever he reached a point where he wanted to know more, they called upon God or blamed the devil.

Running out of breath, Johann climbed the last few steps to his home. The house of the Gerlach family sat on the hillside between Saint Leonhard’s Church and the prefecture, which served as an administrative center and housed the town’s wine and fruit presses. Johann’s house was large, several stories high and with an attached barn and several stables for cows, horses, and smaller livestock. Jörg Gerlach owned more than sixty acres of land around Knittlingen, making him one of the wealthiest farmers in town. He employed a dozen maids and farmhands.

Johann rushed through the doors and past the hunchbacked old maidservant who was lighting the stove in the hallway. His two older brothers, Karl and Lothar, were there, sitting at the large table in the kitchen, shoveling stew into their mouths. Johann guessed they’d just arrived back from the fields. The strong young men had to work even on a Sunday. Johann was still short and slight and hardly any use in the fields. The two brothers looked up angrily when they heard Johann arrive.

“So Father finally found you, you slug,” grumbled Karl, the eldest brother. “If you don’t help in the fields, you could at least look after Mother.” He gestured at the door to her chamber. “Hurry up and go inside before she soils her bed again.”

Johann bit his lip. Neither Karl nor Lothar had ever cared for their mother. They’d lost interest in her the day she could no longer breastfeed them. They had literally sucked her dry. The older brothers considered the weak, sickly woman in the back room a burden.

“Go on!” growled Lothar. “Get a move on, midget! We worked our asses off while you were probably lying in the sunshine.”

The smoke of the open fire didn’t vent well through the opening in the ceiling, and Johann’s eyes stung as he walked down the low hallway braced by sooty beams. He knocked softy at his mother’s door but got no reply. He entered.

The chamber smelled of herbs, vomit, and moldy rushes. It was dark because the shutters were closed. The barber-surgeon was of the opinion that sunlight was bad for his mother, that even plain daylight could kill her in the long run. A sliver of fatwood was burning on the table in